


Excitement

by featherleviosa



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murphamy - Freeform, again only lowkey nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherleviosa/pseuds/featherleviosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy is tired of the same old scams on the same old, naive people. Sure, he gets plenty of money, but where's the fun? When he picks out his latest target, he decides to mess around before going in for the kill.</p><p>Tumblr post: http://fuckfacemurphy.tumblr.com/post/132293224880/21-murphamy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excitement

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on Tumblr requested the prompt, “I kissed you to steal your wallet, but ended up calling you because you kiss so well,” to Murphamy, so I complied with a set of drabbles. Hope you like it!

**_i._ **

It was all in the way you approached them, Murphy learned, as not approaching them at all was a rookie mistake. Letting them see your face, identify your features, and see your smile as you spoke gave them a sense of a comfort. Later, when they were at the police station trying to report something missing, they wouldn’t dare think it was you. If you played your cards right they wouldn’t have found you off putting at all -- in fact, they would find you pleasant as a lot of strangers nowadays weren’t. They would think back to that moment they realized they lost their wallets or all their well-earned cash went missing, but they would think back to that pleasant conversation with that one stranger as they recounted their day to the police and simply know that it wasn’t you. You were too nice, polite, and had way to much to say to do something like that. So, clearly, it wasn’t you.

And as Murphy swiftly pulled out the wallet from the woman’s purse, smiling along with her as she spoke, he knew she would look back to their conversation and think that this day wasn’t all that bad.

**_ii._ **

Murphy wanted to something different. While it was effective, simply holding a conversation with someone after “accidentally” bumping into them or brushing his hand against theirs, it was just too boring. He no longer felt his heart race as he carefully extended his hand to the place he knew the money was being held. It didn’t come up as a success to him anymore; he didn’t smile when he reflected back to how well he scammed those people. When he would count the money and had over two hundred bucks day-after-day, he didn’t feel a surge of pride or the giddiness that use to accompany it.

Back in high school it had given Murphy so much joy to know how clever he was when it came to things like that. It let him know he could survive in the world. It told him he didn’t need to rely on his mother for financial support anymore. No longer would have to nag her about giving him the money he needed for lunch, because she didn’t make meals for them anymore. He would just take care of it himself.

Sure, now he was providing for himself. He lived in a decent apartment with decent neighbors -- who, in all honesty, were too goody-two-shoes for him -- and he actually owned a decent, used motorcycle. And each day he would park that decent motorcycle in a parking lot that rarely ever had break ins. And each morning he would go to that decent motorcycle, put on a shiny red helmet, adorned with an expensive leather jacket, and he would go out for another typical day of scamming idiots of their money.

None of those things seemed to matter anymore if he wasn’t having fun with it.

**_iii._ **

Marking his prey was the easiest part of the process there was. Simply by looking at someone you could tell they had money. If their clothes were without frays or faded colors, they had money. If they wore earrings made of sterling silver instead of cheap jewelry bought at flea markets, they had money. If their car didn’t have a speck of dirt, they had money. And if someone, like the man in his sights, went to the club nearly every other day, then he _definitely_ had money.

**_iv._ **

Bellamy Blake wouldn’t be an easy target.

After three rounds later, that Murphy paid for, Bellamy finally relinquished his name. He began to talk about simple details in his life that he would share with any stranger -- even though this man seemed particularly guarded around strangers. For example, Bellamy Blake, the man with well-toned muscles and shirts too small to show off said muscles, was a cop. Idly running his large hand through dark, curly hair, Bellamy told the friendly man beside him that he mostly worked with break-ins or people speeding too fast on the highway.

Bellamy Blake listed these things off like Murphy would when recounting the scams of that day. He seemed just a tired of routine as Murphy was.

“So, John --” Bellamy began before Murphy cut him off.

“Just Murphy. John’s the name of someone who wears polo shirts and goes golfing.”

Bellamy gave a wry smile at the man, something bordering amusement and another emotion flickering in his eyes, “Alright, Murphy, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a independent blogger,” he replied with a smirk, something akin to excitement coursing through his veins, making his heart’s thumping quicker.

“What do you blog about?”

“Oh, just about hot cops I meet at bars. I’ve only met one good candidate so far, though.”

**_v._ **

It worked. That line actually _worked_.

To be perfectly honest, Murphy had no idea where he was going with this. He simply engaged in this verb dance with Bellamy: talking about the little things, saying “cheers” to things they agreed on with a clink of their beer bottles when pressed them together, taking turns giving the other equally innuendo-heavy pick-up lines, and then suddenly they were in an alley making out.

Murphy could feel how fit Bellamy was as pressed against him, giving a moan of approval, the curves of the cop’s muscles working in tandem with his own as they reflexively rubbed against one another while having an intense lip lock. Bellamy was an experienced kisser, even being as tipsy as he was, and bit down just the right amount on Murphy’s lower lip. Another moan of approval was given, and even though he enjoyed it Murphy didn’t like being submissive. So he roughly grabbed Bellamy’s shoulder, spun him around, and let him take up the space against the cold brick of the wall instead.

The cop liked this very much.

Murphy’s mouth worked on Bellamy’s strong jaw, leaving a trail of wet, open mouth kisses until he reached the crook of the man’s neck. Finding the pulse point Murphy gently bit down, earning a moan from Bellamy and a twitch from down below, before he soothed the spot with his tongue, repeating the process over and over until the man’s heavy breathing told him how unfocused he really was.

He trailed his hand up Bellamy’s shirt, sliding it across the bare skin of his side until he was at his back, and slowly went down until his hand was cupping and roughly squeezing the back of the man’s pants. Murphy couldn’t help but moan when Bellamy pressed further against him at this, the man taking his ear in his lips and biting it before moving to work on Murphy’s jaw. That’s when Murphy took the wallet and discreetly placed it in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Well,” Murphy began, pulling away with a little bit of resistance from Bellamy and wiping the saliva surrounding his mouth with his sleeve, “I think I’m done here.”

And then he abandoned Bellamy and went to his decent motorcycle, already planning a cold shower.

**_vi._ **

Murphy decided to throw in his sheets with his clothes, waking the next morning after a heated dream with Bellamy Blake the cop, a small pool of his own excitement beneath him. Admittedly, his heart still raced at the memory of having those calloused hands work away at his hair, frequently pulling his head back to expose his jaw or those well-trained lips marking his skin. The feeling of Bellamy’s moans reverberating against his own lips felt more like a fantasy, something he would think of during his down time when porn just wasn’t doing it for him. And the roughness was exactly what he thought of even before meeting his latest target. 

It didn’t take Murphy very long to know he didn’t really enjoy being gentle. Sure, he loved fingertips gliding delicately across his back, soothing him, or hands gently running through his hair. He loved being loved. 

But when it came to getting off he needed constant excitement and adrenaline. 

John Murphy needed his hair pulled, fingernails indenting his skin, bites that left sore spots. And later that day, after counting all the money he suckered off of naive people from the last few days, he came across the cop’s leather bound wallet and instantly reached for his cellphone. 

**_vii._ **

“You motherfucker,” Bellamy hissed through the other line. 

It was like those words belonged to him with the venomous way they were said, the volume being just enough to make Murphy think he had been borrowing phrases from Bellamy his whole life. Eyeing his fingernails without really knowing why, he simply listened to the mellifluous tune that were the cop’s swears and vulgar words strewn together to make the perfect threats. It was like music to his ears. 

“You might as well fucking say _something_ ,” Bellamy growled, the sound of things ruffling in the background evident. It sounded exactly as one might sound while hastily putting on their shoes, grabbing their car keys, and leaving the comforts of their home. “You won’t have anybody to talk to once you're sitting in a jail cell. I have enough pull that I could leave you laying on a piss-stained mattress and using a toilet that hadn’t been clean since the last greasy son of a bitch who was there.” 

Murphy could see his smile reflected on the screen of his TV. That and how he was clearly excited seeing as how he was only in his boxers. 

“Are you going to arrest me?” he questioned in an amused tone, his smile only growing larger as he heard an audible huff of air on the other line. “You gonna use handcuffs? Chain me to something? I’m going to tell you from experience that I’d probably need to be attached to something sturdier than a car door handle. Like your arm. Better yet, remembering how hot and bothered you were last night, your co--” 

“I have your GPS coordinates already.”= 

For a second Murphy was taken aback by this response. Even while talking about it, he had somehow forgotten that Bellamy was an actual cop. He actually had handcuffs, and not the pink, furry kind. He actually had a cop car with a little computer wedged on the console like a GPS, something he’s seen nearly a dozen times when he was simply a delinquent being arrested for assault or vandalism. Bellamy was an actual cop, with an actual gun -- which, he thought with minor amusement, certainly wasn’t what was pressed against him last night -- and he actually had the capability of taking everything earned on petty thievery away from him. 

But Murphy was too much of a smartass for his own good to stop what was said next. 

“We should finish what was started at the club, y’know. We could end the night with a good bang before you manhandle me a bit more and put me in the backseat of your car.” 

And at that, the phone clicked off. 

**_viii._ **

A rough knock on his door resounded throughout the apartment, just as Murphy had considered escaping by the fire escape just outside his living room window. Bellamy didn’t seem the kind of guy to fuck around, despite what last night suggested. During their talk at the bar, before the godawful pickup lines and the hands idly placed in places they shouldn’t be, Bellamy recounted one of his most memorable day as a cop. 

“The guy had to go to the hospital after I was done with him,” Bellamy recalled, a slight pride in his tone, though he hastily tried to cover it up with saying he felt bad. Which was probably half-true but Murphy knew he enjoyed it to some extent. He saw a fighter, not a lover -- again, despite what last night suggested. 

But Murphy was resolute on giving up, simply because running would only make it worse. Releasing a deep sigh he trudged over towards his front door and opened it to none other than the policeman. The policeman who wasn’t in uniform, who did not have his badge or gun on him, who _did_ dangle handcuffs off of his index finger, and who definitely had a wicked smirk on his face. 

“Don’t worry,” Bellamy smiled, stepping into the house and shutting the door behind him with his foot, “When I put these on, I’ll be sure to attach you to something the sturdy.” 

Of which Murphy replied with an equally excited look in his eyes, “I’d love to see you try, Blake.” 


End file.
